Let’s Go to a Country Bar

Saturday was my friend’s birthday. His request? A country bar. Jake and I knew of one, but we’d never been: Roman’s Oasis, on the outskirts of Goodyear. Roman’s is a famous (infamous?) country bar out in the Phoenix boonies. My Aunt Susie requested we go next time she’s in town, because it’s known—even in Ohio—as a priceless dive. So we went, and well, I gotta say: I might be a country girl.

Roman’s is very much out of character for its neighborhood. One minute, you’re driving past mansions and a grocery store on Yuma Road. The next, you come upon a well-lit building covered in junk. Literally, junk: old wagon wheels, license plates, and a huge fake chicken. No, really, a HUGE FAKE CHICKEN. You gotta stumble through gravel to make it to the front door. (Stilettos not advised.)

Once inside, you’re overtaken with more junk, including pictures of men on horseback, signed dollar bills stapled to the walls, and buzzing beer lights. The place is huge and separated into two different bars. We quickly realized that straight ahead and to the left, people listened to country and did the two-step. On the right, people danced to hip-hop and wore backwards baseball caps.

We chose the country side, since my buddy was looking for a “country bar.” Roman’s featured a live band who looked the part—cowboy hats and boots. The dance floor was covered in couples dancing, and I quickly realized, shoot, I wanted to learn how to two-step! I grabbed the closest cowboy (with Jake’s permission, of course) and asked him to teach me.

Two-step is a lot like swing, so I like to think I caught on pretty fast. As beers emptied and shots were consumed, I became a regular dancing fool. I danced with a half dozen different dudes who spun me until I thought I might throw up all over their plaid shirts.

Did I mention the sweat? By midnight, what had once been a clean, attractive crowd had become a dripping, dirty mass of dancing insanity. By midnight, every shoulder I touched was soaking wet, but I’m not one to judge: I was a mess myself. Did I stop dancing? Nope. Well, once, but that was only because I really did think I was going to be sick, thanks to a country fellah who treated me like a spinning top.

There is certainly danger in going to Roman’s Oasis. The demographic is thoroughly mixed. Every race, age, and constitution was accounted for. I only saw one fight break out, but it stopped pretty fast. What do you expect when you mix cowboys with bikers with rappers with drunks? I guess that’s part of the allure of a dive bar: you never know what’s going to happen. One guy asked me if I wanted to go for a ride on his Harley. And hey, I learned how to two-step! You just never know.

I highly suggest a trip to Roman’s Oasis in the West Valley. I don’t care if you live in Scottsdale; you can sleep on my couch. The place is worth the drive, if only for one night spent surrounded by dancing and debauchery. And people say there’s nothing to do in Goodyear!

What Tyler Durden Says

A writer without a project is a terrible thing.

It’s bad at night, especially when I’m alone, left to consider my daily inadequacies and failures. These failures don’t have to be large. Maybe I had a beer, and all day, I was trying to be “healthy.” Maybe I cussed when I should have stayed calm or received a negative letter from an agent.

(“I am Jack’s inflamed sense of rejection.”)

On my thirty-first birthday last week, I watched Fight Club. Seemed a meaningless choice at the time, but maybe it was symbolic. Somehow.

(“I see all this potential, and I see squandering. God damn it, an entire generation pumping gas, waiting tables; slaves with white collars. Advertising has us chasing cars and clothes, working jobs we hate so we can buy shit we don’t need. … We’ve all been raised on television to believe that one day we’d all be millionaires, and movie gods, and rock stars. But we won’t. And we’re slowly learning that fact. And we’re very, very pissed off.”)

True, coming from Brad Pitt, those last few lines are ironic.

However, I associate with the characters of Fincher’s Fight Club. I certainly have the Narrator-Tyler Durden effect. I sound much different in my own head than I do in real life. Most of the time, I’m barely in my own head at all, off writing a story in my imagination instead. I could be driving past an elk in a t-shirt; wouldn’t know it.

I also share commonalities with Marla Singer.

(“Marla’s philosophy of life is that she might die at any moment. The tragedy, she said, was that she didn’t.”)

Am I ever that depressed? No. But I grasp what she’s talking about. Despite how I come off, I’ve never been much of an optimist.

My thirty-first birthday was last Thursday, so why is all this Fight Club rubbish hitting me now? No idea. I guess I’ve felt unsettled the past few nights.

(“Hey, even the Mona Lisa is falling apart.”)

Unsettled. Know what I mean? Have you ever felt unsettled? The word itself is unsettling.

(“Not fixed or stable; without established order; disorganized.”)

I’m Type A to the extreme (probably a little OCD), so feeling unstable and disorganized is unsettling.

(“This is your life and it’s ending one minute at a time.”)

This isn’t a shallow quarter-life crisis. I’m not having a crisis. I said I’m unsettled.

Jake said something poignant today: “If dreams were easy, everyone would achieve them.” Which brings us back to Tyler Durden’s observation that we will not all be famous. We will not all be successful. We will not all be rich. And yeah, I guess some of us are pretty pissed about it, so is it possible to channel that pissed-off-ness into ambition? Into a driving force? It’s better than getting jaded.

I watched Fight Club on my thirty-first birthday, and all I got was this blog post and a reminder that Tyler is right.

(“No fear. No distractions. The ability to let that which does not matter truly slide.”)

Stop being afraid. Stop being distracted. Tell yourself thirty is the new twenty, and this is not the time to freak out, give up, or hide under the bed. Thought I’d end on a hopeful note.

(“I am Jack’s complete lack of surprise.”)

By Popular Demand … Sherlock Fan Fic, Part II

I’m as surprised as anyone by the positive responses I received from my first Sherlock BBC Fan Fiction, “This is Not a Safe House.” Wrote a sequel over the weekend. Hope you enjoy. (Also rated M for sexual content.)

This is Not a Safe House, Part II

She wept when she heard he was dead.

She almost cried over him once before, in the safe house in Pakistan when he’d been shot while saving her life. She never thought he would die, though—not that night, not ever. Sherlock Holmes seemed a legend in her eyes, and legends never died. Then, he did, by his own hand, which was the most shocking part of the nightmare. How could he do it? How could he splatter that beautiful brain on pavement? How could he leave John? How could he leave her?

He left her in Paris a year before, but he didn’t say goodbye. She realized they never said goodbye. How disrespectful to go and kill himself without at least a friendly text, which was exactly what she did when she heard the news—stumbled upon it on the BBC website. Irene Adler sent Sherlock Holmes a text: “Tell me you’re not dead.”

Then, she waited, in her shiny new flat in San Francisco. Paris was too close to London, too close to him. California was better, safer: a sunny place to start a new business. The day she heard the news, she texted him from her flat, and he never responded, so she wept for what seemed like days.

She cancelled with clients. She didn’t eat. She didn’t sleep. She sat and stared at her cellular phone, willing it to make a sound until the silence threatened to crush her eardrums—until she turned on loud, American rock music to cover the sound of his absence. Forever. The only man she loved, gone forever.

When the weeping stopped, when the clients returned, she still jumped at every text. When she closed her eyes at night, she dreamt of his hands on her flesh and remembered the way his mouth felt in the safe house in Karachi. When she woke in the morning, she sometimes even felt his warm body next to her, only to reach out and find cold, tangled sheets. She didn’t cry then, not anymore. She subdued all sentiment, buried alongside her dead consulting detective.

* * *

That afternoon, she awaited a client. One of her favorites: a pretty, young actress who always stopped by when visiting from LA.

Irene sat in a chair made of worn leather, purchased at an antique shop when she’d first moved to San Fran. The chair was her first piece of furniture, in fact, because she liked sitting in it, liked looking out the window over the harbor as the mist rose every day. She extended her slim legs and rested her red stiletto pumps on the windowpane.

Her style had changed drastically in California. In an effort to remain incognito, she chopped her long, brown hair into a short, blond bob. She replaced her usual black negligee with gaudy shades of red and gold—very Hollywood. She kept the accent, didn’t try to assimilate, because clients seemed to like a dirty girl from Britain. Her posh voice acted as a stimulus as she whipped them, chained them, and tied them to bedposts.

On the arm of the chair, she spun her cellular phone. She always kept it close, although if asked, she would have denied she kept it close because of him. Irene no longer even allowed herself to think his name.

A quiet knock on her apartment door sent a sigh from her lips. Her job was all she had to keep her distracted. She had no friends in California—too dangerous to make connections. Her “connections” were now only sexual and on a paid basis. Such connections kept her safe, safe from the way he once made her feel.

Irene stood and adjusted her floor-length, red lace robe. She glanced in the mirror to the left of her front door and admired the way her bleached blond hair made her light eyes glow. She winked at herself, struck her most seductive pose, and opened the front door.

A man stood before her—tall and slim, in a gray suit and light blue shirt. Blond hair was styled back over his high forehead, but even with the assistance of product, Irene could see the hair wanted to curl. For a moment, she didn’t recognize him, not until his eyes finally lifted from her robe and found her face. Those eyes: the cold, blue eyes that lingered on the edge of nightmares.

“Your client has decided to cancel,” he said.

(Read the rest at http://www.fanfiction.net/s/9379897/1/This-is-Not-a-Safe-House-Part-II. Rated MATURE.)

Sherlock BBC Fan Fiction? I’m Officially a Nerd

We’re back from our cross-country road trip, and I figured out what to do between writing novels. You guessed it: Sherlock BBC Fan Fiction. I’m officially a nerd. (Rated M for some sexual content.)

This is Not a Safe House

Beneath the black fabric that smelled of blood and gunpowder, sweat dripped between her breasts, yet she felt frozen. She was afraid but safe, because of him, the stupid, stupid man. She felt safe, even though they were in a stolen vehicle—even though they drove through the backstreets of Karachi, Pakistan, unable to seek shelter at the British Embassy, because she was supposed to be dead and he was in the country with a fake ID.

She screamed when he almost hit a pedestrian, but he turned the wheel just in time. Under normal circumstances, Irene Adler would not scream. However, these were not normal circumstances. Ten minutes earlier, she was prepared to die. Then, the sound of his voice. How many men had he killed for her? Five? Six? With nothing more than a machete and well-handled gun—which made her wonder if Sherlock Holmes had killed before.

Perhaps that was why she did not reach for him. Not only would he pull away from her caress, but she was, for the first time since they met, scared of the consulting detective.

He, too, wore a black robe, his hair covered by a heavy hood. She could see only his eyes from beneath the fabric that covered his face, and his eyes were not amused. His look was not playful or mischievous. His eyes were like steel, so she stared out the window and watched dark buildings pass like shadowed mausoleums.

“Where are we going?” She sounded forceful, strong, unwilling to reveal her weakness.

“A safe house.”

“Why are you doing this?”

“Don’t ask stupid questions, or I’ll regret my decision.”

She wished he would remove the fabric from his face. She needed to see his mouth. Did he smirk, at least, with that last comment, or was he serious? She did not take her eyes off him, which was perhaps why she noticed his breath shake on a rather loud exhale.

“Mr. Holmes …”

“Please refrain from speaking until we reach our destination. You’re only acting as a distraction, and I have no time for distractions right now.”

Usually, she would have snapped at him, made a joke about how distracting she could be—how men usually enjoyed her distractions. She didn’t feel up to it.

When he turned suddenly left, her hip jammed against the car door. She winced, but she knew the bruise would only add to all the others accumulated during her time of imprisonment. Then, Sherlock put the car in park and jumped out. She assumed she was to follow.

“Here?” She looked up at a stacked tenement building with laundry hanging from balconies and the sound of a radio playing the Beach Boys.

“No. A block up.” He nodded and started walking. She had to practically run to keep up. “If they find the car …”

“They’ll think we’re hiding with someone in the apartments.”

“Hopefully. Try to cover your face.”

“There’s no one—”

“Cover your face, Ms. Adler.”

She pulled fabric over her mouth and continued to run alongside her protector, who she was still surprised to see. Irene had never hurt someone as much as she hurt Sherlock Holmes; yet, he issued her death warrant, didn’t he? Perhaps they were equal in their betrayals. And although she did not hate him—she couldn’t hate him—she wondered if he hated her. Yet, if so, why was he there? Why did he save her life?

He rushed down an alley the size of a broom closet. She heard the metallic sound of keys and smelled rotting garbage. Then, the door opened, and she felt his hand in the darkness, pushing her inside. It wasn’t much: a bed with the approximation of clean sheets; a desk, covered in Sherlock’s belongings; a duffel bag on the floor; and a darkened bathroom to her right.

“Cozy,” she joked.

He stepped past her and removed the hood and fabric from his face. Finally, she could see him, and she was surprised to find him sweating and paler than usual. His tall form leaned against the wall, and she noticed blood on his neck—probably nothing more than spatter from earlier.

“Whiskey,” he said.

“What?”

“There’s whiskey in my bag.” He nodded at the black duffel on the floor.

Irene had never once seen Sherlock drink, so she stepped toward him. “Mr. Holmes.” The closer she got, the better she could hear his breath—labored, strained. She put her hand on his cheek and found him cold. “What’s wrong?”

“The whiskey …” His upper torso tilted forward. She caught him with her hands on his shoulders, which made him shout.

She noticed her left hand felt wet, and when he found the strength to stand straight again, her palm was covered in blood. She looked up at him, terrified.

“Hazard of the job,” he whispered.

“Oh, my God.” She put her arm around him and easily pushed him onto the bed. She straddled his waist and untied the black cloak he wore as a disguise. Beneath, he wore a white dress shirt. However, Irene felt light-headed when she saw the amount of red that now stained his entire shoulder and chest. She untucked his shirt from his black pants and tore the fabric; buttons flew. Finally, after a year of fantasy, Irene Adler touched the bare skin of Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and yet, there was nothing sexual about it. She pushed the fabric away from his shoulder wound and recognized, as she expected, a bullet hole in his faultless flesh.

(Read the rest at http://www.fanfiction.net/s/9315455/1/This-is-Not-A-Safe-House. As I said, it gets kind of steamy from here …)

Star Trek: Into Darkness – Couldn’t Be Any Better

The newly revamped Star Trek movies scare me; I’m not embarrassed to admit it. I saw Star Trek: Into Darkness last weekend, and here’s my short review: I was in fetal position the whole time.

I love the Star Trek franchise. Love. When I want to relax and be entertained, I watch the original episodes (you remember: when William Shatner was hot). The original films are hilarious, due to the time period in which they’re made and the crew’s overwhelming affinity for getting fat and old. The TV show and original films are different animals, but I love them both. Same can be said for the newly realized JJ Abrams vision.

The first Abrams film came out in 2009 and featured a revamped, youthful Enterprise crew. Not only did I find the casting to be impeccable (Chris Pine and Zachary Quinto are the perfect Kirk and Spock), but the movie itself was one thrill after another, with comic quips to keep the tension at least somewhat lessened. However, much like Into Darkness, I watched the first modern Star Trek curled in a little ball. Abrams knows suspense, man; no joke!

When I saw the first trailer for Star Trek: Into Darkness, I was concerned, because the movie looked so serious! How could Star Trek be so serious?

I wanted to see the movie no matter what. I had to see it, because I knew Benedict Cumberbatch played the villain. Ever since my introduction to BBC’s Sherlock, I’ve been a self-admitted “Cumberbitch” (or member of the “Cumber-Collective;” the name has been changing ever since Ben revealed that calling ourselves “bitches” sets feminism back a few decades). Regardless of what we Cumber-fans call ourselves, I couldn’t wait to see him play a bad guy—and a super bad guy at that. The skinny Brit went up two suit sizes due to an extensive work out regiment and eating “like a foie gras goose,” as he put it. Sexy. Mmmmmm … What was I talking about? Oh, yeah, the MOVIE.

Although the trailers do try to make Into Darkness something serious, it really isn’t. I laughed just as hard, if not more so, in Abram’s Star Trek, part deux. The actors nailed their roles. I must apologize to the original Star Trek cast, but you’ve been replaced by the modern cast—because they, each and every one of them, are perfect, especially the leading men, but also background character Scotty in particular (Simon Pegg), who was a repeated source of comic relief.

Unless you’ve been living under a rock, you’ve heard that Cumberbatch does actually play Khan (it’s been rumored for, like, a year). He is one creepy dude, and good old Benny has now joined the ranks of Javier Bardem: versatile, talented men who can play heroes, yes, but their mastery is in evil.

The fight scenes: stupendous. Action shots: wonderful. Jake and I often complain about action films moving too fast. I hate when you can’t tell who’s punching who or who’s shooting at what. Abrams did a good job of keeping everything clear. When Khan blows up a bunch of Klingons, you know. When Spock tosses guys onto their backs in crazy Vulcan flip-moves, you know. However, the film isn’t only action, action, action.

The film has feelings. The film has emotion. The film has character development, and at times, you’re not even sure who you’re rooting for. I love the actors in this movie. Love them. And although sitting in fetal position for two hours isn’t exactly comfortable, my reaction speaks to the directing and impressive cinematography. Into Darkness is a well-made film, and if there was an Oscar for “Best Collective Effort by Cast and Crew,” I’d say this movie should win.

I don’t often suggest people spend inordinate amounts of cash, but Into Darkness is one for the big screen. Pony up the dough and go see it in a theater, would you? You can thank me later.

“Excuse me. I have to go kill a bunch of people.”

Rough Hands: A Different Perspective

Many of you called for MORE after reading my recent short story, “Rough Hands.” (See HERE.) This is just a tease, but hey, why not get a glance into the mind of our human character, Damian Keller? Enjoy this tiny addendum.

Rough Hands: A Different Perspective

Standing so close to her in the elevator, he smelled her perfume—spicy, like cinnamon and autumn in London. Her dark eyes shook as she looked up at him. She didn’t want to be kissed; he kissed her anyway. He felt her hesitation—her lips limp like cold, raw meat. Then, her lips tightened, willing him to pull away, leave her be.

When she moaned, he was surprised. He thought she might hurt him, shove him away, under the duress of his sexual attack. Instead, she made a noise like a wild beast, and her hands latched onto the back of his head. Her mouth opened; her tongue touched his. He was shocked by her hunger, and in response, his hands found her ribs, her hips, and finally, her thighs. He lifted her, pressed her against the wall. He pushed his pelvis against her, and his violent lust would have hurt a normal woman. But Helena was not a normal woman; she was immortal. Part of what he loved about her kind: their strength and the way, for once in his life, he felt weak in someone’s embrace.

Her fingers pulled hard on his hair, and he remembered the look on her face the night before when he caught her touching him in his office. She was so embarrassed, she ran from the room. He terrified her, he knew, but he didn’t know why. Perhaps that was part of his game, part of the reason he trapped her in an elevator. He had to know: why would a vampire be scared of a human?

She took charge and shoved him away. He watched her land like a cat on the elevator floor, and her iron-like fists exploded against his chest. He fell against the opposite wall of the elevator, barely able to contain himself. He wanted to tear her clothes off, bang like mad on the elevator floor. He knew it was the danger he craved. He dated vampires because at any moment, he could end up dead, and in a life so filled with boredom, Damian found the threat intoxicating. He longed for it, so he wasn’t afraid when she pinned his wrists to the wall—wasn’t afraid when she kissed him and he felt her fangs clash against his front teeth.

Her kissing slowed. She still held him trapped, but he felt as though her mind wandered. He felt as though she traveled far from him, away from the elevator and their connected mouths. He wanted to speak to her, say her name and call her back, but then, she returned. She tore at his tie and popped a button on his dress shirt in an effort to press her mouth against his bare chest.

He’d been there before. He knew he would soon feel her teeth in his flesh, feel his own warm blood flowing into her cold mouth. He lived for the pain; he was willing to die for it. He touched her shoulders, pulling her closer, but then, she pulled away. She stepped away from him, out of breath, eyes wide.

“Where did you go?” he asked.

He watched her run fingers through her hair. She adjusted her dress and looked nowhere near him.

“Helena,” he said.

Then, the elevator moved, but Damian stood still. She left him there, alone, with a painful erection and an even worse feeling in his chest. Didn’t she understand? He just wanted to be one of them.

Saying No to Grad School

For the past few weeks, I’ve met with several of my amazing professors at Glendale Community College to discuss the prospect of me pursuing a Master’s degree at Arizona State. Although they’ve all been very helpful, they’ve been holding out on me; yesterday, I got the real deal, and I left campus, halfway between total panic, disillusionment, and tears.

The fact is I’ve been looking for some challenge in my life. I love writing novels and short stories; you know that. However, I usually feel as though I’m not doing “enough.” I’m not working toward the greater good.

I like to think that getting one of my novels published would change this feeling. For instance, one of my dear, dear friends just finished reading my recently completed novel rough draft, Damned if They Don’t. This dear friend is agnostic, and my novel made her say, “Maybe I could come to church with you some time just so I can understand what this God stuff is all about.” If that’s not working toward the greater good, I don’t know what is.

Despite this amazing conversation, I wanted more. I saw myself as a teacher someday, which is why I spoke to my professors about earning a Master’s degree. Until yesterday, I saw myself teaching at the college level. I saw myself inspiring youth to read, write, and use their words to exorcise emotional demons. All of this and more—until yesterday.

It’s no one’s fault, and I’m thankful the professors I met with yesterday said the precise things I needed to hear. For instance, “Teachers rarely have time to write.” Or, “I’ve given up on writing a novel.” Or finally, worst of all: “Don’t try to be a good teacher and a good writer.”

Certainly, I felt distraught yesterday. I feel distraught today, because I thought for sure I would be applying to ASU for my Master’s next year. I thought I would be a TA and then, a teacher. Now, I realize these were silly aspirations. Not silly because they were unrealistic; silly because I should have known—being a Master’s student, being a teacher, would ruin me as a writer.

It’s sad, tragic, to hear that teachers—highly talented professors—no longer write. It’s sad they no longer publish, because there just isn’t enough time to take care of personal projects when they have over a hundred students to deal with. However, my professors spoke the truth yesterday, no question. They were brutally honest with me. One teacher who I highly respect even said, “I worry about people like you becoming teachers. I worry you’ll stop writing, and writing is what you’re made to do.”

I’m saying no to graduate school. I’m saying no to becoming a college professor. I’m lost, for now, seeking a sign. However, the same friend who now wants to go to church with me said something interesting at our last happy hour. When I explained my frustrations over my current career situation, she said, “You’re in a waiting room, and a door will open soon.” Here’s hoping I step through.